


Good Boys

by Ilya_Writes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (mostly), F/F, Jean-Jacques is a good boy, Jean-Jacques-centric, M/M, Mafia AU, Pliroy, Tags will be updated, all sex is consensual, otayuri - Freeform, there is NO infidelity in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:58:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilya_Writes/pseuds/Ilya_Writes
Summary: JJ’s entire body volts into action, movement violently lurching through him as though his body is not his own as he faithfully drops to his knees and takes leather-clad flesh into his own hands. He is no more capable of disobeying Yuri’s words than the body lying docile in his arms is capable of shaking free his grip and walking away, and Jean-Jacques is painfully, hopelessly aware of this.A being higher than himself has risen up from the dark and spoken its will into existence, and Jean-Jacques is blind to anything but the painful awareness that his heart is not his own.





	Good Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betelxeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betelxeuse/gifts).



 

***

 

Jean-Jacques Leroy is a Boy Scout. An _Eagle Scout_ to be exact.

 

As a child and then as a teenager, Jean-Jacques had dutifully performed every task and test with an almost religious fervor, climbing the ranks of the Scouts with an eagerness characteristic of his willful spirit.

 

Even now, he can remember advancing from a Cub Scout into a Boy Scout at eleven years old just as clearly and proudly as he remembers competing in his first ISU sanctioned competition at fourteen years old, pouring over catechisms in preparation for his Confirmation at seventeen years old, and sitting in the front pew for his sister’s wedding at twenty years old.

 

And sure, Jean-Jacques catches hell for his Eagle Scout status from time to time. Everyone from Plisetsky to Chulanont has made a crack or two about the ISU’s poster child for heterosexuality being a member of what the youngest Russian prodigy deemed the gayest organization in North America. But Jean-Jacques is just as proud of his status in the Scouts as he is of his status as an internationally ranked athlete, and he feels no need to defend his feelings to the little kitten or to anyone else.

 

Because if there are any values that can be used to surmise the defining principles of Jean-Jacques’s twenty three years of life, they can be named as his devotion to God and his religion, his vast love for his family, his dedication to the sport of figure skating, and his commitment to the Scouts.

 

They’re the basic tenets that have formed every expectation in Jean-Jacques’ world, served as the mile markers of accomplishment in his life, and inspired every experience that has colored his perspective from childhood into adulthood. And just as Jean-Jacques has known his entire life that good boys listen to their parents, go to Church on Sundays, do well in sports, and join the Scouts, Jean-Jacques has always known that he would obey his parents, honor God and his religion, eventually win a Grand Prix final, and ultimately become a Boy Scout. An _Eagle Scout_ to be exact.

 

Because Jean-Jacques Leroy is nothing if not _a good boy_. It’s all he’s ever been, and all he’s ever wanted to be.

 

***

 

It’s three a.m. when Jean-Jacques hears the first thump.

 

It’s easy enough to ignore from within the soft white cocoon of his hotel bed, the noise muffled by the veil of sheets and distant enough that it barely registers to the sleeping skater.

 

There’s a subsequent series of thumps that rapidly follow the first, all marginally louder in volume and each closer than the one before it. Awareness of the muted thuds lingers ever closer to the periphery of the sleeping skater’s senses, _tap tapping_ through the veil of his dreams as if asking permission to enter. But it isn’t until the first sharp curse that Jean-Jacques finally wakes, instant recognition of the acidic voice in question bringing him back to his waking senses.

 

It’s Plisetsky. And he isn’t happy, by the sound of his biting tone.

 

Not that that’s unusual.

 

Jean-Jacques drowsily entertains the idea of going back to sleep, the prospect of settling back in to his comfortable chrysalis of blankets calling out to him like a siren song. It is the day before a competition after all (well, the early morning of, technically), and he needs to be well-rested if he plans to trounce Plisetsky on the ice as thoroughly as he’s been planning to do all season.

 

But the drawn-out series of curses escaping from the youngest Russian’s lips has Jean-Jacques’ own mouth curling into a grin. Before his more rational mind can even think to protest his unconscious decision, the Canadian skater’s feet are touching down on the plush white carpet of the dark hotel room and moving on autopilot towards the low lights creeping out from under the frame of the heavy wooden door.

Seeing Plisetsky curse and stumble a little will probably motivate him all the more during the actual competition, Jean-Jacques reasons. The kitten probably had a bit too much to drink after going out to eat with his rinkmates the night before, and is now stumbling adorably back to his room down the hall.

 

It’ll be like watching a cute cat video to start the day off right, he decides. He’ll only just peek his head out of the doorway in order to get a brief glance, and then actively try as hard as possible not to make a single comment. After all, he doesn’t want to spook the little kitten this early in the morning on the day of a competition! No, Jean-Jacques wants Plisetsky to be at his best when he thoroughly crushes him.

 

Quietly unlatching the lock on his hotel room door, he pushes one hand against the heavy wood to swing it away from its frame with slow, deliberate caution. He peers out into the dimly illuminated hallway with eager eyes, but there is only so much that he can see in the low light. It takes him a moment before he is able to make out Plisetsky’s svelte silhouette leaning against the wall several doors away from his own.  

 

The Russian skater is shouldering his weight against the sturdy frame of a hall closet, posture listing sharply to the left as he leans heavily against it. He’s crouching slightly, his back turned to the Canadian skater’s field of vision as he braces himself against the wood, and the only detail that Jean-Jacques can discern in the dark is the rigid tenseness of the lean muscles in his shoulders and thighs.

 

The shadowy form of another vaguely familiar figure is leaning stiffly against the opposite wall, broad shoulders meeting Plisetsky’s in the middle of the aisle as both men’s forms completely choke out the light of the narrow hallway. Jean-Jacques strains his eyes against the black silhouettes of the two figures, but he can see nothing but the outlines of their heads ducked conspiratorially together.

 

Plisetsky pushes away from the wall with a harsh breath and a biting curse, form low and centered as he comes to rest his weight against the man beside him. Jean-Jacques stares intently at the nebulous strip of darkness where the two figures’ silhouettes blend together, barely pausing a moment before immediately realizing that the figure beside Plisetsky must belong to Otabek Altin.

 

The famously broad shoulders and slightly shorter stature of the Kazakh skater now seem easily recognizable even through the veil of darkness obscuring the details, and it dawns on Jean-Jacques that he probably should have realized it sooner. Otabek has been Yuri’s near-constant companion in crime since the younger athlete began competing in the senior division four years ago, and the Kazakh man is one of the few people close enough to the nineteen year old that his vicious cursing tirades barely elicit a reaction.

 

Unlike the rest of the world, Jean-Jacques notes, the twenty two year old athlete can rest easy in the assurance that the blonde’s bitter insults and threats aren’t for him.

 

Jean-Jacques allows his gaze to linger along the outline of the two skaters’ connected shoulders, the firm lines of the Kazakh’s musculature blending seamlessly into the more understated definition of the Russian’s lean form. Otabek is one of the select few people who Plisetsky will ever let close enough to share casual contact with, and Jean-Jacques is all too aware of this fact. If _he_ decided to casually lean up against Plisetsky like that, the Russian skater would undoubtedly try to claw his eyes out before feeding them to him.

 

Jean-Jacques has tried, of course. Against his better judgement, against his more sober inhibitions, he has tried. Memories of a drunken attempt at comraderie, of Jean-Jacques’ body feeling warm and heavy and pleasant with alcohol, can confirm as much. The air had felt so alive with electricity that night, the atmosphere thrumming with the steady pulse of excitement in Jean-Jacques’ veins as the liquor lent him courage. His body had been on fire where his side was connected with Yuri’s, where his arms were wrapped around Yuriー every nerve aflame and singing with the heat of electricity.

 

And then, there had been hell to pay. The aftermath hadn’t been pretty, hadn’t been painless. Jean-Jacques can still feel it now, the way Plisetsky’s sharp knuckles had connected with the sides of his face, the way his nails dug between his ribs to draw blood even as he was physically pulled away. Jean-Jacques had checked them in the hotel mirror the morning after, not bothering to clean the thin lines of blood properly and wondering whether they would scar.

 

No such luck.

 

But the way Plisetsky’s face flushed with breathless outrage as he heaved for breath, the way he threw himself at Jean-Jacques to leave his skin singed with fire even as he shouted curses at himー that had been. Well.

 

It had been worth it.

 

Yuri begins speaking in frantic Russian to the Kazakh man next to him, both men’s postures still low and tense as though burdened by an invisible weight. Jean-Jacques takes a stumbling, tentative step into the dim light of the hall, his sleep-addled mind attempting to make sense of the unusual urgency in Plisetsky’s strangled voice as he strains his eyes against the dark for more detail of the skaters’ forms.

 

He makes the mistake of stepping out far enough that the heavy wooden door closes swiftly behind him, the quiet click ringing as loudly as a death knell in the silent stillness of the hallway. Plisetsky’s head whips toward him at the sound, blonde hair a messy halo around his face and eyes as wide and fiercely green as Jean-Jacques has ever seen them.

 

“ _Jeh-Jeh_!” Yuri hisses under his breath. His voice is alive with an urgency that makes Jean-Jacques’ own breath stutter in alarm.

 

And yet, he still can’t help but relish the way Plisetsky’s accent makes his tongue catch adorably on the syllables in that way he’s always loved. It transforms his name into a moniker that only Yuri and Yuri alone will ever call him, and it’s always felt like a shared secret between them when shouted across busy hotel lobbies and occupied rinks. It feels even more like a secret when whispered into the quiet night.

 

The blonde’s gaze, usually so sharp and feline with carefully contrived artifice, is flooded with more vulnerability than he’s ever seen in the depths of the nineteen year old’s ocean-colored eyes. It leaves Jean-Jacques feeling raw and exposed, stripped down to his core and powerless in the most basic of senses, and wondering ineffectually whether the man before him will ever know the power that the raw cut of those sapphire-and-emerald eyes has to strike him to his core.

 

Jean-Jacques knows, and that feels like punishment enough. He hopes that Yuri will never have reason to find out.

 

It seems strangely fitting, to be seeing Plisetsky’s form outlined by nothing but the low, muted light occupying the space between them. The face before Jean-Jacques is one that he’s come to memorize centimeter by centimeter in the quiet twilight of his own mind, mentally tracing lines of alabaster skin over and over again in the dark.

 

It’s so much easier not to think about what’s done in the dark, Jean-Jacques finds. With lights off and eyes closed, he can be blissfully blind to the desires of his own body, and to the perversions of his own mind.

 

Plisetsky shifts restlessly, deceptively sharp features belying the vulnerability in his eyes as he stumbles unexpectedly over the black shadows swathing the floor in darkness. Jean-Jacques looks downward, eyes leaving the depths of Plisetsky’s oceanic gaze to focus in on the nebulous darkness of the hall carpet, and begins to see the profile of a third figure emerging from the dark.

 

And Jean-Jacques is reminded, suddenly and with certainty, that not everything done in the dark can remain in the dark forever.

 

Jean-Jacques Leroy had not opened his hotel room door with the expectation of seeing Yuri Plisetsky and Otabek Altin dragging a leather-clad body face-down across the pristine white carpet of the silent hotel hallway. And yet, Jean-Jacques already knows how this scenario is going to end. And he knows that Yuri Plisetsky knows it, too.

 

Plisetsky had noticed the moment his eyes shifted to the floor, had seen the dawn of realization and understanding across his face before Jean-Jacques himself was even aware of them. He had read the blatant and terrible weakness of dueling panic and desperation in his eyes as clearly as words on a page, Jean-Jacques is sure of it. How could he not, when Jean-Jacques could never hope to be anything but shamelessly transparent to him?

 

When Yuri calls out to him, his voice is as lilting and sweet as Jean-Jacques has ever heard it. There is a desperate, strangled undertone of rough gravel lending a sharp bite to his honeyed voice, and that somehow makes it all the sweeter as Jean-Jacques drowns in the fathoms of Yuri’s ocean-deep eyes.

 

 _“Fuck, Jeh-Jehー Help_!”

 

And JJ’s entire body volts into action, movement violently lurching through him as though his body is not his own as he faithfully drops to his knees and takes leather-clad flesh into his own hands. He is no more capable of disobeying Yuri’s words than the body lying docile in his arms is capable of shaking free his grip and walking away, and Jean-Jacques is painfully, hopelessly aware of this.

 

A being higher than himself has risen up from the dark and spoken its will into existence, and Jean-Jacques is blind to anything but the painful awareness that his heart is not his own.

 

***


End file.
